


6.30 a.m.

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crying, Emotions and vulnerability, If you share Sherlock's expectations you'll be disappointed, M/M, Manipulative Sherlock, Porn, Sherlock isn't though, bottomlock, minimal plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-06-28 01:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19801450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The rules, Sherlock knows, are as follows: if he annoys John enough, John will punish him by fucking the daylights out of him, and it's glorious.What he hasn't counted on is John changing the rules.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock turns off the shower and steps out, steam swirling around him as he wraps himself in his large, thick towel and then uses John's smaller one to dry his hair. Once he's is not dripping water everywhere, he hangs John's now-wet towel back on its hook and heads to the living room. His feet still leave damp footprints on the floor.

It's half past six on Sunday morning, and John is upstairs, fast asleep as planned. Sherlock smiles to himself, tosses his own thoroughly wet towel onto the seat of John's armchair and picks up his dressing gown from where he's left it on the back of his own chair. The cool touch of silk against his bare skin makes him shiver pleasantly. The fine fabric sticks a little to the parts of his body that are still damp when he pulls it closed and ties the sash.

His violin case rests on the desk, the violin itself right where he left it last night after tuning it with care, leaning against the case with the bow beside it. Sherlock picks it up, sliding his fingers along the familiar smooth, cool wood, almost a caress. He lifts the instrument to his shoulder, takes the bow in his other hand and walks to the window, standing with his back to the room.

The first touch of the bow to the strings feels like a breath of fresh air. Sherlock chooses one of his own compositions, a pleasant, slow melody that will, without a doubt, be enough to disturb someone's sleep and annoy them, but isn't loud or aggressive enough to make them angry; he has played this game before, and he knows to start slow.

He keeps his eyes closed and focuses on the measured dance of the bow across the strings, the movement of his fingers on them. Slowly, the wood of the violin warms up to his body temperature. The instrument is a part of him, the bow an extension of his arm, and he almost loses himself into the music.

He's so absorbed in what he's doing that he nearly forgets _why_ he's doing it. He doesn't hear John coming down before the sound of his own name drags him out of the music, the notes dissolving into the air.

"Sherlock." John sounds tired and somewhat put out. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock opens his eyes and turns to face John, standing by the door in his blue-striped pyjamas, hair tousled, flattened on the right side of his head, dark eyes still bleary from sleep.

"Playing, John, I would've thought that obvious, even in your sleep-addled state."

John glares at him, and it's adorable. Barely-awake John is grumpy and rumpled and the bags under his eyes are heavier, and Sherlock would never tell him that his early morning glare only serves to make him look cuddly.

"Do you even know what time it is, you bloody git? Put the violin away before you wake the entire neighbourhood."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says, entirely against the truth, and lowers the violin. "I didn't intend to disturb your sleep." He must bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face neutral.

John grumbles under his breath and heads towards the bathroom. When he can't see it anymore, Sherlock allows himself a small smile. The game is, indeed, on.

Eleven minutes later, John steps out of the bathroom. Sherlock can hear the footsteps approaching but keeps his gaze on the screen of John's laptop. He had to rush upstairs to get it from where John had left it under his bed, and he couldn't find the power cord. He hopes the battery will last as long as he needs it to. Even John may notice it if he's pretending to use a laptop that isn't on.

"Why is my towel wet?" John has stopped at the kitchen doorway. His voice is low and annoyed but not angry. Not yet.

"Oh," Sherlock says, as if surprised, and looks up at him. John has the wet towel wrapped around his waist and drops of water are falling from his hair to his shoulders and rolling down his chest. "I believe I used it to dry my hair."

John glowers at him. A bead of water slides down his neck and settles on the little hollow above his left collarbone.

"If you need two towels for yourself, keep an extra one in the bathroom, do _not_ use _mine._ "

There's sharpness in his tone now, but he's trying to control himself, trying to stay calm. He's an interesting mix of fiery temper and enormous patience, and sometimes it's difficult, even for Sherlock, to tell how hard he needs to be pushed before he breaks in the most beautiful way.

"Of course," Sherlock says mildly and turns back to look at the laptop screen. John hasn't noticed it's his, yet.

John huffs and stomps back upstairs to get dressed, muttering to himself.

Sherlock keeps thinking of the droplets of water, sliding down John's soft, warm skin, disappearing into the folds of the pale-blue towel.

John is predictable. When he's dressed – old, faded jeans, a chequered, light-brown shirt and oh dear god, a _horrifying_ maroon cardigan on top of it – he goes to the kitchen to make himself coffee.

Sherlock waits.

It takes John a whole minute to realise his favourite mug is missing.

"Sherlock," he says, footsteps nearing the kitchen doorway, "have you seen my mug?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock says, as if he has been absorbed on what he's reading on the computer. He's not. John's emails have been boring lately – Sherlock hadn't realised the emails to his girlfriends were actually rather entertaining, compared to work-related messages and curt conversations with not-quite-sober Harry. He's glad about the lack of girlfriends, but it does rob him of one source of entertainment.

All good things come with a price, he supposes.

"My _mug_ , Sherlock. I know I left it in the sink last night."

"Oh, that." Sherlock suppresses a smile and doesn't look up from the screen. "I must have put the goat testicles in it."

John spends the following twelve seconds spluttering like an idiot.

"The _what_?!"

"Goat testicles, John. It's an experiment. I'm studying–"

"No," John interrupts, as Sherlock knew he would do. "Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it. Where did you even get goat testicles on a Sunday morning? Wait, no, don't answer that."

"Fine," Sherlock huffs. "It's in the fridge, though, if you want it."

" _No_ , I do _not_ want it. And you're going to clean it. _Thoroughly_. Once you take that shit out of it."

Sherlock shrugs. John spends a moment glaring at him with such force that it almost feels like a physical touch before turning to look for another mug.

When he can't see Sherlock anymore, Sherlock grins. He loves it when things go exactly as planned. The trouble he's been through to acquire the goat testicles has proven to have been entirely worth it; the experiment he has planned is a nice bonus.

John comes to the living room with his coffee in one of their better coffee cups and two slices of toast with raspberry jam on his plate. He hasn't offered anything to Sherlock, and that's a good indication of his level of annoyance.

As he sits down at the desk, he finally notices Sherlock is using his laptop. He glares, and Sherlock pretends he doesn't notice.

"Why can't you use your own bloody laptop, you arse?" John snaps.

"Yours was closer," Sherlock says without raising his gaze from the screen.

"No, it _wasn't_ ," John tells him. "I happen to know it was in my _room_."

Sherlock shrugs. He can almost hear John gritting his teeth. "Was it now?"

John takes a deliberate bite out of his toast and reaches for the book he's left on the table. He won't acknowledge Sherlock before he's done with his breakfast, and that's fine with Sherlock. Sometimes, it's good to let him cool down a little; it makes the moment when he finally snaps that much sweeter.

When John is done with his coffee and toast, he takes the cup and plate back to the kitchen. Sherlock listens the splash of water as John washes them. There's a lot more clatter than the simple task requires, and Sherlock smiles a little.

John is one gentle nudge away from breaking.

Sherlock is pretending to check his own site when John returns to the living room. He isn't quite stomping, but there's an agitated quality to his steps, and for a moment, Sherlock considers he the possibility he may have gone too far. But John heads to his chair, not towards the door, and Sherlock knows his plan is still working.

"I want my laptop back," John says, stopping in front of Sherlock.

"Just a moment." Sherlock allows his eyes to travel across the text on the screen, trusting that John isn't observant enough to realise he's not reading, only letting his gaze wander.

"Sherlock," John prompts, voice sharp.

Sherlock waves a hand at him. "Just a moment," he repeats. "I'm almost finished."

John huffs, turns towards his own chair, and pauses. Sherlock holds his breath as John reaches out and picks up Sherlock's still-wet towel from the seat of his chair. John turns back around, the movement slow enough that Sherlock knows he's using that time to take deep, calming breaths. Perhaps he's counting to ten.

If he is, that's not working too well. "Why the bloody _fuck_ is there a _wet towel_ in my _chair_ , Sherlock?" John shakes it in front of Sherlock's face.

"I must have left it there."

John inhales sharply through his nose, and Sherlock must suppress a shiver.

"Can you _not_ do that?" His voice is cold steel as he shakes the towel again. "The whole bloody _chair_ is _damp_! Can you genius fucking brain _not_ figure out what happens to my _clothes_ if I sit in a _bloody damp chair_?"

"John," Sherlock says, "emphasising words loses its effectiveness when you're doing it to twenty-five percent of them."

John throws the damp towel on his face. Sherlock catches it with one hand and lowers it to the armrest of his chair.

"Don't think I don't know _exactly_ what kind of game you're playing, you _cock_ ," John snaps. "Put the bloody laptop away and get _up_. _Now_."

This time, Sherlock doesn't even try to hide his smile. He pushes the wet towel on the floor, closes the laptop and slides it under his chair, and stands up.

The moment he's on his feet, John catches him by the front of his dressing gown and pulls him down so that the tips of their noses are touching. His knuckles are hard and warm against Sherlock's chest through the thin fabric.

"You're doing this on purpose." John's voice is a low snarl, and his breath is hot against Sherlock's cheeks.

"It's not my fault you're so predictable and easy to manipulate," Sherlock tells him, grinning madly, perfectly aware that it's only annoying John more.

John narrows his eyes at him, then lets go of his dressing gown and grips the back of his neck with one hand as the other slides into his hair. Sherlock can't help the shudder that rakes through him when he feels blunt fingernails digging into his skin.

"You're going to regret this," John promises, lips twisted in a thin, dangerous smile.

Sherlock expects to be thrown face down on the sofa – it wouldn't be the first time – but instead, John pushes him towards the kitchen. For a moment, Sherlock hopes John will bend him over the kitchen table, an experience that was immensely satisfying the last time it happened, but unfortunately, he's dragged right past the table and guided along the short hallway to his own room.

He decides he may like this turn of events, after all. They've never done it in a bed, and a comfortable, flat surface seems like it could be an advantage. Even when angry like this, John maintains enough control to be considerate and careful, and that means he's holding back when he has Sherlock on the sofa, or pressed against the wall, or on the floor.

John gives Sherlock a hard shove towards the bed, and Sherlock stumbles a little before falling face first on it. He crawls up and rolls onto his back, propping himself up with his hands and noting with some satisfaction that his dressing gown has fallen open. When he looks up, John's eyes are glued on his bare chest. Sherlock smiles, slow and smug.

"Are you going to _punish_ me?" he asks, voice low and soft in a way that he knows John likes.

The faint shiver running through John's body is another glorious victory. He meets Sherlock's eyes, and Sherlock smirks up at him.

"Yes," John says, and the word isn't entirely steady. "But not in the way you think. Not this time." His voice hardens, but there's something new in his eyes, something almost soft that doesn't quite match his tone. "This time, maybe you'll actually learn something."

All sorts of interesting scenarios present themselves in Sherlock's mind, though he has trouble connecting any of them with the unfamiliar look in John's eyes. He flops on his back on the bed and decides that this once, he can wait to see what happens instead of trying to deduce it. Sometimes – rarely – being surprised is half the fun.

"Do your worst, captain Watson," Sherlock says and closes his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes into a somewhat strange direction. Please note that this fic is tagged exactly the way it is for a reason.

"Do your worst, captain Watson," Sherlock says and closes his eyes.

John huffs, and then there's a rustle of clothe that suggest he's undressing. Sherlock's eyes fly open again; this is an interesting development. John has never bothered undressing for this; pushing his trousers and pants down to free his prick has always been enough.

Now John has already removed the horrid cardigan, and though Sherlock loves the feel of the wool against his naked skin, he can most certainly appreciate John without it too. John's shirt, vest, trousers and pants follow, all ending up in a pile on the floor, with John's socks – one black, one dark blue, he must have dressed in the dark again – on top.

Sherlock takes a moment to look at him. He's seen all this before – the warm skin, marked with faded scars and wrinkles and other beautiful imperfections, the steady muscles and sharp bones and the softness of subcutaneous fat, the hairs on John's chest and legs and groin, and his cock, thick and long with a slight upwards curve – but never like this. Never has John gotten undressed _for Sherlock_ , and it seems more like a reward for his behaviour than anything else.

"John," Sherlock calls, because John is standing there, watching Sherlock watch him, unmoving. "The punishment won't be quite as effective if I have time to forget why I'm punished."

"You never forget a damn thing you don't want to forget," John says, but he walks to the bed and climbs in, kneeling between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock spreads his thighs further to give John better access, his dressing gown falling completely open, and John gives his knee a light pat, like a thank-you.

There's a look in John's eyes Sherlock hasn't seen before; it's calculating, but something else too, something almost wary, as if he's reconsidering his options.

Sherlock doesn't want him to reconsider. Sherlock wants to be fucked right through the mattress, and John having something as ridiculous as second thoughts is not acceptable.

"John," he prompts. "I'm getting old here."

Determination replaces the strange look on John's face. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips when he bends down and, without a warning, takes Sherlock's cock in his mouth.

Sherlock cries out. John's mouth is so hot, and wet, better than Sherlock's own hand, better than _John's_ hand, even, tight and perfect around his cock. It's heaven. It's completely beyond description, though Sherlock tries anyway; he can't get any further than _incredible_ and _amazing_ and _brilliant_ , and it seems that it should be funny, though right now he's not sure why, exactly.

"John," Sherlock whines. "Oh, _John_."

John lifts his head, and that's not what Sherlock wants.

"The lube," John says before Sherlock has time to protest, and lowers his perfect mouth on Sherlock again. He can't take it all – lack of experience, Sherlock suspects – and wraps his right hand around the base. That's brilliant, too. Sherlock _adores_ John's hands, steady and strong and capable.

His own hands trembling, Sherlock reaches for the lube he left on the nightstand before his shower. He fumbles with the botte and almost drops it on the floor, and a sharp flash of pure panic travels through him, makes him tense all over and grip the bottle tighter in his hand. If he doesn't get the bottle to John safely, John will stop so that one of them can pick it up, and Sherlock can't bear the thought.

"Here," he pants, offering John the bottle.

Without lifting his head, John takes the lube from Sherlock. Whatever he does with it, Sherlock doesn't register, because he has managed to take Sherlock's cock deeper, the head touching his soft palate, and is sucking hard enough to turn him inside out. Sherlock stuffs his fist in his mouth to silence himself, but some horrible, embarrassing noises escape anyway.

Then there's a slick finger touching Sherlock's hole, and he whimpers, because it should be in already. He needs it there, right now, and this is cruel, this waiting. John has never made him wait before, and if this is his idea of a punishment, it's _working_.

The finger circles his hole, again and again, and Sherlock whines and tries to thrust his hips towards it. John hums around his cock, and then the tip of the finger is sliding in. It stays there long enough for Sherlock to let out a relieved sigh before it retreats and returns to rubbing and petting around his hole.

" _John_ ," he protests.

John hums around his mouthful again and pushes the finger slowly back in, all the way this time, and for a terrifying moment, Sherlock fears he'll come before they get any further. He focuses on breathing, eyes squeezed shut and his teeth digging into his lower lip, and after a while, the orgasm recedes.

Then John starts thrusting, the pad of his finger occasionally ghosting over Sherlock's prostate, and this time Sherlock is convinced he'll come before John can get another finger into him. He digs his nails into his palms and bites his lip harder, and then cries out when John pulls the finger out and goes back to petting his hole, with two fingers this time.

"This is cruel and – and _unusual_ ," he grits out.

John, the bastard, lifts his head. "Yes," he agrees, voice calm and steady. His eyes are very dark when they meet Sherlock's. "Absolutely."

And he plunges two fingers deep into Sherlock.

Sherlock screams when the fingers find his prostate and start rubbing, and he's thankful that John's mouth isn't on his cock. He's so close his vision is swimming, and any more stimulation wouldn't only make him come, it would kill him.

"John," he chokes out.

John eases the pressure on his prostate and switches to thrusting into him, slower now, and Sherlock struggles to calm his breathing and get his heartrate under control.

That is, of course, when John lowers his mouth back on Sherlock's cock, clever tongue pressing against his fraenulum, and the little control he's achieved deserts him. Sherlock knows he's making humiliating noises again and he shoves his fist back between his teeth while his other hand clutches uselessly at the sheets.

John is relentless, driving into him repeatedly, but now the suction on his cock is gentler, lighter, nowhere close to getting Sherlock off, not even when John's thrusts get harder, fingers twisting and curling inside him.

"John," he says again, his voice high and strained, and John lifts his head and offers him a tender little smile even as his fingers keep working Sherlock open.

Then he pulls his hand away, and Sherlock whimpers at the loss. He feels too empty and open and wet there, and he wants John's fingers back, but John is already reaching for the nightstand and wiping his hand clean with a tissue.

"Please." The word escapes Sherlock without his permission, and he can feel his cheeks heating up.

"Hush," John tells him and presses a kiss on the crease of his hip. "It's all right." There are more kisses, across his abdomen, up his side and along the curve of his ribs. John's lips are warm and dry, and sometimes there's the hot, wet touch of his tongue, a hint of sharp teeth. John works his way up Sherlock's chest, to his collarbones and his neck, lips never leaving his skin, and oh god. Oh dear god. Sherlock knows where this is heading.

They're going to kiss.

John Watson. Is going to kiss him.

The world goes a little blurry around the edges, and then John stops, hovering above Sherlock, their lips mere millimetres apart.

"You can tell me to stop," John whispers, his warm breath ghosting over Sherlock's skin like a caress. "Whenever you need me to."

"Get on with it," Sherlock snarls and squeezes his eyes shut.

John kisses him.

Sherlock's entire body freezes and his eyes fly open again.

He has been kissed before. He's kissed other people, for a case, as an experiment, a few times because he wanted it. He knows how it works, and he likes it well enough.

But this. This is something else.

This is _John_.

John is gentle at first, brushing his lips against Sherlock's before withdrawing, then repeating it again and again, lingering a little longer each time until Sherlock is parting his lips, on the verge of begging for more. He's so ready for more.

He knows he's making pleading noises every time John's lips leave his, but he can't force himself to care. He wants John to keep kissing him forever. Taking his mouth, claiming him in a way a cock up his arse can never compare with.

Finally, John's tongue slips between his lips, and Sherlock allows his eyes to fall closed as he meets it with his own. It's wet and slick and it fills his mouth and Sherlock sucks at it and prays John will never stop.

Eventually, John does stop, but only to start pressing light kisses all over Sherlock's face. Sherlock allows it for a moment before lifting his chin and turning his head to meet John's lips again. John hums against his mouth and Sherlock doesn't wait. He slides his tongue between John's parted lips to taste him, feel him. It's glorious, and John is kissing him back and holding him close. Sherlock feels like weeping.

They keep kissing until Sherlock is panting and clinging to the sheet under him in a desperate attempt to ground himself. His hips are thrusting up on their own accord, his aching cock brushing against John's thigh when he manages to lift high enough. John pulls back, and Sherlock whines and then squeezes his eyes shut in shame. Above him, John sighs softly and presses a few more tender kisses on his forehead before pulling him gently up to sitting position.

"Let's get this off," he says and pushes the dressing gown off Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock shifts enough to shove it to the floor, and then John's hands are on him again, guiding him to lie on his side with his topmost leg bent and pulled up towards his chest. When John settles on the bed behind Sherlock's back, Sherlock looks over his shoulder, confused. "John…"

"Shh," John tells him. "Just let me." John's skin is warm against his, and at the brush of John's erection against his buttocks, Sherlock makes a desperate noise. The kissing has been fantastic, perfect, the best thing that has ever happened to him, but now all he can think is being fucked, hard and deep until there's no air left in his lungs to scream.

John drops light kisses on Sherlock's shoulders and upper back while one of his hands is fumbling for something – the lube, Sherlock suspects. There's the snick of the cap when John finds it, and Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths when he listens to John slicking himself up. Sherlock wants this _so much_ , he can barely stand it.

The head of John's cock, slick with lube and precome, slides between Sherlock's buttocks. It stops at his hole, and Sherlock pushes back before he even realises what he's doing. John catches his hip with one lube-slick hand and forces him to still. Sherlock hisses, annoyed, and John shushes him, lips brushing the skin of his back.

He spends an eternity rubbing himself against Sherlock's arse, the head of his cock bumping Sherlock's aching bollocks, stroking his perineum, sometimes almost pushing into him. Sherlock fights to keep still because he knows that the more he moves, the longer John will make him wait, but he can't help the involuntary jerks of his hips whenever John's cock passes his hole. Each time he shifts, John's hand tightens on his hip, and he wants to scream and beg.

By the time John finally takes him, fingers digging into his hip to keep him still, Sherlock is a desperate, whimpering mess. He can hardly breathe; his heart is hammering in his chest, thumping against his ribs so hard it hurts.

"John." It sounds choked and pathetic, but John kisses the back of his neck and whispers soothing nothings into his ear until he's buried all the way in Sherlock's body. He could swear no one has ever been this deep in him. "John," Sherlock moans, trembling, eyes squeezed shut.

"Shh, shh," John breathes against his skin. "It's all right, you're all right."

Sherlock shakes his head and pushes his arse back against John. _Fuck me_ , he thinks. _Just fuck me_.

John pulls out, slow and careful, and then pushes back in. The angle is perfect, and Sherlock bites his lip to keep from begging. John keeps filling him at the same steady rhythm while one of his hands grips Sherlock's shoulder and the other slides up and down his chest, a light, tender caress that's not enough and too much.

It's slow and gentle and Sherlock loses his grasp of time. There's nothing else in the world but John pushing into him, John's hands caressing him, John's mouth pressing kisses on his skin. Sherlock realises he's letting out whimpering breaths ever time John bottoms out inside him.

"Please." The word comes out as a strangled whisper. _Please harder. Please more. Please never stop._

"Shh, Sherlock, shh, it's all right." John's voice is soothing and gentle, and Sherlock finds himself believing him. He's falling apart, but John is holding him, and it is all right.

"Fuck me," he gasps, but this is not fucking. This is something else, and Sherlock doesn't want to think about it, but he knows there's no going back after this. What they are doing now is changing things, and he is in no way ready for that. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if that would make this less real, and John keeps taking him, sliding all the way into him where he's slick and open and craving for more.

The hand that wraps around Sherlock's cock is cool and damp with residual lube and sweat, and Sherlock cries out at the first touch, jerks his hips back and away from it, only impaling himself deeper on the hard flesh inside him.

John leaves a trail of feather-light kisses down Sherlock's shoulder and starts stroking him in time with his thrusts, and Sherlock is a helpless mess of pleasure. He's making noises, he knows, but he can't stop, can't silence or control them. He's so close, and it's terrifying.

John's hand moves on him, twists a little at the head of his cock, thumb rubbing at the fraenulum, and he cries out as if he's in pain when his orgasm overtakes him. John's chest if flush with his back, John's hand keeps moving on him, John's cock rubs across his prostate, and it's too much. He twists and writhes and trembles, hips jerking as he spills over John's hand and the sheets. A small part of him can feel John stilling against him, pulsing into him, and then his vision blurs.

It takes him a moment to realise the blurriness is tears. Sherlock turns his face to the pillow and sobs quietly into it.

"There, shh," John whispers. His lips brush gentle kisses on Sherlock's shoulder blades and on the back of his neck. He wipes his come-stained hand on the sheets and reaches to touch Sherlock's, light and tender. "You're all right." He shifts, and his softening cock slips out of Sherlock. Sherlock's whimper ends in another sob.

_Stop telling me that_ , Sherlock wants to say, because he's _not_ all right. He feels raw and flayed open and only John's comforting hold of him keeps him from shattering into a million tiny pieces. He clutches at John's hand with both of his, holds it against his chest and cries until there's nothing left.

John keeps pressing kisses on his skin and whispering nonsense, and finally, Sherlock manages to calm himself. John shifts a little, reaches for the nightstand and then gives him a tissue, and he wipes his face and blows his nose and settles back against John, his throat raw and chest aching.

"You all right?" John asks and squeezes him tighter.

"You've kept telling me I am." Sherlock means it to come out sharp and snappish, but instead, the words sound almost grateful. He pulls John's hand up to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. For reasons he doesn't understand, it feels comforting. "I'm fine," he says, and it's not as much of a lie as he expects it to be.

"You are," John agrees, his voice low and soft.

Sherlock waits for some sort of comment about learning his lesson, but none comes. _I'll never let you do this to me again_ , he thinks, but doesn't open his mouth to say it, because John, the idiot, would believe him.

He presses closer to John, and John pulls the duvet over them and holds him tightly, whispering soft words into his hair until Sherlock falls asleep.

When he wakes up, hours later, John is still there, pressed against his back, breathing warm air into his hair. Sherlock turns around and reaches out to touch John's cheek.

John's eyelids flutter open, the look on his face soft and affectionate when he sees Sherlock. Some fragile, unnamed emotion blooms in Sherlock's chest, warm, a little sharp, frightening. He manages a weak smile, and when John returns it, he's almost sure he can see the same emotion reflected back at him.

As he shifts closer, John does too, and then John's lips press against the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock lets himself to be kissed and thinks about waking up alone and playing his violin at six thirty in the morning. It occurs to him that from now on, maybe he doesn't have to.


End file.
